Senses
by Klyntaliah
Summary: With Natasha's help, Clint copes with his (hopefully) temporary condition after a mission. Oneshot, Clintasha. Clint!Whump. T for brief mild language. "It's temporary," Clint found himself saying. He hesitated. "At least, they think it is."


The rickety old pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of a brick apartment complex.

"Need help getting in?" Steve Rogers asked his teammate.

"I can manage. But thanks," Clint Barton replied.

Steve paused. "Look, Barton… are you sure you shouldn't call Natasha and tell her first? I mean, I know it's temporary, but it's a lot to take in.

"Trust me, it's better this way," Clint said, smiling grimly. He turned towards the windshield, and his eyes rested on the busy city ahead of him, but his gaze was vacant and he saw none of it. All he could think about was the redheaded girl he was about to be reunited with, after being separated from her for four months. She was all he had thought about on the trip, and the fact that their reunion had to be under such sad circumstances was almost more than he could bear.

But it couldn't be helped.

"Well… thanks for the lift, Rogers," Clint said, offering his friend a forced smile.

"It was my pleasure," Steve said. "Good luck, Barton."

Clint nodded his thanks and fumbled with the doorknob. Then, slowly, painfully, he lowered himself out of the vehicle and onto the hard sidewalk.

When he reached the door of the apartment, he heard the truck's motor start up behind him. He turned and waved; and in response, Steve honked the horn, the cheerful noise echoing off the buildings. The sound of the motor faded as Steve drove away.

Clint didn't move for a moment, just listened to the noisy bustle of the city and breathed in the acrid smell of gasoline fumes. Then he felt for the doorknob, turned, and let himself into the building.

He knew the way to Natasha's flat perfectly. He could walk it blindfold, which certainly came in handy. Clint limped to the elevators, waited as a few people alighted, and stepped in.

He ran his fingers over the cool metal buttons until he reached the one marked '4.' He pressed the button, and the elevator jolted upwards.

As it hummed familiarly past the floors, Clint's mind was still on Natasha. How would she react when she learned of his unfortunate condition? She would be upset, certainly. But it was only temporary, so it wasn't so bad. Maybe he was making too big a deal out of it; it happened to lots of people.

Just… it had never happened to him.

The doors chimed open, and Clint shuffled slowly down the hallway towards Room 410. It crossed his mind that she might not even be home. But of course she would be home. She was always home on Friday nights… or, if not, she was with him.

Clint stopped in front of the door and listened. It was deceptively silent inside, but Clint knew Natasha. She didn't recognize his hobbling footsteps, so she was waiting. But she would recognize his knock.

He knocked.

There was a flurry of movement inside the room, and the door opened.

Both of them were silent for a minute, each waiting for the other to act. Then Natasha said, "Welcome home, stranger." Just the familiar sound of her voice after so many months was enough to make him smile.

But she caught onto his melancholy mood very quickly.

"What's wrong?" she asked in concern.

Clint took off his sunglasses.

A few seconds passed. Then Natasha gasped.

"Oh. Oh no, no, Clint… what happened?"

"It's temporary," Clint found himself saying. He hesitated. "At least, they think it is."

He was so good at reading Nat's expressions, and he wished he could now.

But he couldn't.

"I was brained from behind. Concussed," he went on. "Apparently, a rare side effect of concussions is blindness. Did you know that?"

Suddenly, her arms were wrapping around him, her face buried in his chest. Tears stung his eyes as he returned the hug, one hand pressing into the small of her back, the other twisting itself in her hair.

He lowered his head and buried his nose in her hair, trying to focus on this: The way she felt, the way their bodies fit together perfectly, the faint scent of her shampoo. He closed his eyes and tried to forget, tried to feel normal.

It almost worked for a second.

Then she pulled away, and he reluctantly let go of her.

"Come on in."

She didn't offer to help him in, and let him find his own way to the kitchen table, which he was grateful for. She knew he hated being coddled. He sat down in a chair and sighed, running his fingers through his hair as Natasha walked into the kitchen.

"If I'd have known you were coming, I'd have waited on dinner," Natasha said, opening the refrigerator.

"I already ate anyway," Clint assured her.

"Mm. Coffee, then?"

"Oh, hell yes."

Since he couldn't see anything, Clint focused instead on the noises Natasha made as she moved through the kitchen. There was a soft _clink_ as she pulled two mugs from the cabinet, then a _tap_ as she set them on the counter. A _rattle_ as she took the coffeepot out of the machine, a _hiss_ as she filled each cup with the steaming liquid.

Then she went to the refrigerator and opened it with a _chuff_ , got out the creamer with a _clatter_ , and shut the door again with a _thunk_.

She went back to the mugs, and there was a _trickle_ as she added creamer to each one. Twice he heard _click-crunch-ting-clunk_ as she added the sugars that they liked to each of their coffees.

Then there was the _jingle_ of a metal spoon stirring each cup, and she came and sat down across from him, sliding his mug to him till it bumped his hand.

He murmured his thanks and raised the cup to his lips, blowing lightly on the surface of the beverage to cool it.

"So," Natasha said. "Tell me about Montreal."

Clint sighed and kneaded his forehead with one hand, trying to collect his thoughts. "At first," he began hesitantly, "it was just supposed to be a surveillance mission. We received intelligence of someone trying to replicate the Iron Man suit again, but this one sounded pretty high-tech. So Fury wanted me to go check it out."

Clint launched into a discussion of his mission in Montreal, how it had gone south and he had ended up in the custody of hostiles, and why a mission that was supposed to last a maximum of two weeks had ended up lasting four months.

Natasha was a good listener and never interrupted him, only hummed at certain points in his narrative and sipped her coffee. But as he talked, Clint found himself wishing for his eyesight even more. He had never realized how much he relied on Natasha's reactions when he was talking to her. And he also realized that he was missing out on all her little expressions and gestures, like the way she sometimes tilted her head when she was listening, and the way her eyebrow quirked when she told a joke, and the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. It made him miss her more than ever, even though she was only three feet away from him.

"Clint." Natasha's voice broke into his consciousness, and she gently brushed his arm.

Clint blinked. He couldn't remember when he had stopped talking, and he couldn't remember when Natasha had moved to sit next to him.

"Everything okay?"

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was a silence.

"What's wrong?" Natasha asked.

Clint sighed and furrowed his brow, trying to think of a way to express what he was feeling.

"It's just," he began haltingly. "When I was in captivity, all I could think about was you. All I wanted was to see you again, and it was… the thought of seeing you again that kept me going."

He hesitated, worried that he had overstepped a boundary, but she said nothing, and he had no way of interpreting her expression. So he continued.

"And now that I'm here, and I'm with you again… I guess it's just frustrating that I still can't see you. I mean, I'm so glad I can be with you… but I want to _see_ you.

"I mean, sure I know what you look like, but it's just been so long since I last saw you. So the memory… isn't as clear, I guess. So I guess, instead of relying on the memory… I just wanted to see the real thing."

He fell silent and massaged his face, waiting for her to speak. She was quiet, and seemed to be pondering his words.

Finally she spoke. "Maybe this will help." And then she took his hand in hers. Carefully, she guided it upward, and set his fingertips on her forehead, her nose bumping the center of his palm.

Clint froze, confused.

"Refresh your memory," she said, her words warm on his wrist. And then he understood.

Gently, he moved his hand downward across her features. Ghosted across her closed eyelids, followed the sharp line of her cheekbones, traced the curve of her nose. His fingertips came to rest on her lips, and his thumb brushed her chin.

Gradually, feature by feature, the picture he had of her in his mind became sharper.

"It worked," he said in amazement, and he felt her smile.

Natasha pulled his fingers off her mouth so she could speak. "Better?"

"Yeah," he said with a smile.

Natasha yawned, and possibly stretched. "It's ten thirty," he said. Her chair scraped the floor as she stood up. "I think-"

Clint automatically reached for her hand, but he missed and found himself clutching a handful of her shirt. Which still fulfilled his intention of not letting her leave.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I want to watch a movie," Clint blurted out.

Natasha froze. "Um…"

"I know I can't see it," Clint said. "But I want to watch one. With you."

"Okay," Natasha said. She picked up both their empty mugs and carried them into the kitchen. "What movie?"

"I don't care. Star Wars?" Clint suggested.

"Sure. Let's go," Natasha said.

They both walked into the living room. Clint collapsed on the couch while Natasha put the movie in.

She came and curled up next to him, and Clint put his arm around her. Of course, the real reason he'd wanted to start a movie was so that he could spend time with Natasha. He wasn't sure if she minded if he stayed the night or not, and he didn't want to go back to his house. Not yet.

So he listened indifferently to the movie's audio, but mostly he was focused on Natasha. The way she held her breath on tense parts of the movie, the way her fingers twitched slightly as they rested on his arm, the way she was unconsciously rubbing her cheek up and down on his shoulder. It made him feel relaxed and drowsy, and he dozed sporadically as the movie played on.

Eventually, he woke up and found that the credits were rolling – at least he thought they were. The Star Wars theme music was playing, and there was no dialogue, so that was a good indication.

Natasha was asleep – at least he thought she was. Her breathing was deep and even, and she felt heavy and warm against his side.

Clint groped blindly around the couch for the remote control to turn off the TV, trying to locate it without awakening Natasha. He finally found it tucked between her knees. Then he turned the device over in his hands, trying to remember where the 'Off' button was.

He pressed a button, which turned out to be the volume control. As 'The Imperial March' intensified, Clint scrabbled frantically at the remote, searching for the 'Mute' button.

Instead, the button he pressed did something to the TV that made thundering white static fill the room. Growing irritated, Clint began stabbing at random buttons, as Natasha stirred and sat up.

"Clint, what's going on?" she mumbled sleepily. "Clint – here." She wrested the remote from his grasp and silenced the TV.

Clint sighed in frustration and dropped his head back.

"You okay?" Natasha asked.

"Not really," Clint said quietly. "I just feel so… detached. Like I'm not really here. I mean, I know I'm here, but it feels… false." He gave a shuddering sigh and drew his hand across his face. "It's so hard to explain! It's like – I can't see anything, so it feels like there's nothing really there. You know what I mean?"

He gripped Natasha tightly, like she was his lifeline, and in a way, she was; his only anchor to reality.

"None of this feels real, Natasha!" he said forcefully. "Nothing feels real!"

Suddenly, Natasha's mouth was on his, and she was kissing him intensely. Clint was surprised, but he returned the kiss, pouring into it all the emotion, longing, and passion built up from the past few months.

His hearing had always been impaired, and now his sight was gone, but for now, he closed his eyes and focused on the other senses: her scent, the way she felt in his hands, the way she tasted: like coffee.

Eventually, she pulled away, resting her forehead against his.

"Did that feel real?" she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, and a tear leaked out of his sightless eye.

"It felt better than real."

They slept on the couch that night.


End file.
